


The Threat of Kindness

by naity_sama



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Blood, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Graphic Description, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Injury, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, snares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:15:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26884243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naity_sama/pseuds/naity_sama
Summary: Geralt had heard fantastical tales of the Fair Folk and the Fae creatures that roamed the other realms. In no Witcher's tales had there been any account of what to do in a situation like this."I will deliver you no harm in repayment for your kindness." The Fae murmurs against Geralt's jaw. "I will deliver you a kindness, in it's stead."
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 585





	The Threat of Kindness

**Author's Note:**

> This idea just popped into my head when I awoke today, fully unformed. As I wrote it, it realized itself with very little alteration or input from myself.

The general premise was that of an oversized stag; adorned with many branching antlers wreathed in silver and gold, the creature was an ethereally dappled milk and honey tone that glowed weakly in the gloom of the forest as if touched by moonlight. That was where the comparison ended, for this hart bore fangs the length of Geralt's hand, and its cloven hooves looked more like claws. It would have been beautiful, he supposed, darting freely through the wood. Instead, its magnificent head was pulled sharply to the side, a single curled tine caught tight in the line of the snare that held the beast to the ground. Everywhere the wire touched, the flesh was blackened and swollen, weeping pitch. No mortal beast, this.

As Geralt drew nearer, one hand held ready to cast and the other warily upon the hilt of his steel sword, the creature began to struggle. It was that futile struggling that had caught his ear, the large body writhing in the leaves and underbrush. With each pull, the snare only bit deeper. It would eventually tighten through the flesh until it met the bone, if the unfortunate creature lasted that long. He stopped, just out of range of those tangled limbs weakly kicking out. It was well and truly caught, and working its way to exhaustion. 

There were many paths this day could have taken. But as the beast stilled, it opened its eyes to look upon Geralt. And though they were inhuman - a depthless sea of muted brilliance - there was an intelligence there that could not be ignored. This was a thinking being, therefore, and more than just mindless fodder for his swords. With any hope, it could be reasoned with. 

Geralt had heard fantastical tales of the Fair Folk and the Fae creatures that roamed the other realms. In no Witcher's tales had there been any account of what to do in a situation like this. The Folk themselves were a tricky lot, bound by laws that no mortal man could fully grasp. There were occasional encounters with faerie hounds and the Wild Hunt that oft ended in bloodshed. But in all his studies, Geralt had not been taught to identify or field anything fae beyond "avoid at all costs, boy. Do not thank, do not promise, and never _**ever**_ give it your name."

Folklore was often wildly inaccurate, although many things were based in truth. That steel, a derivative of cold iron, could harm it was evident in the fact that the creature's flesh burned in the grip of the snare. That it felt pain and fear, for both were overwhelmingly present in it's fathomless eyes, was also an unerring truth. The familiar weight of both swords upon Geralt's back as he slid the steel back into its sheath, as he had a thousand times before, felt right. 

"I do not wish you harm, but I will defend myself against you," Geralt's voice was the grind of hobnails on cobblestone. "I would cut you free of your bonds. I ask that you deliver me no harm as repayment. Understood?"

The stag meets Geralt's intent stare with pupiless, liquid eyes that ripple like ocean swells. Slowly, it blinks it's heavy lids; acquiescence. It submits further, rolling its weary head to the side as far as it can, baring the crippling snare to him. There is no way to free the beast wholly without pain. He tells it so, and it seems to sigh, but does not fight him. He keeps tools in his bag, for mending armour and Roach's hooves. A quick whistle brings her to him. The mare is apprehensive, more used to slain beasts than ones still breathing, but she stops a short distance away and accepts a soothing rub of gloved fingers upon her velvet muzzle. 

The pincers he uses to cut his mare's hooves are cold iron, and strong enough to cut the wire of the snare. The stag's nostrils flare in alarm as Geralt approaches. 

"Peace. It is the only way," he murmurs. The wire is pulled painfully taut, embedded in the flesh of the leg at the delicate joint just above the hoof, and wrapped about its legs as if the creature had spun about in an effort to free itself. Each place the band of metal meets skin, it cuts into it from the pressure, likely worsened when the beast went down. The tangled antler only cinches the snare tighter, holding the head at an odd angle lest it tighten its bindings further. 

Geralt sets the pincers on the wire between the head and body and cuts. The wire recoils, the stag's head dropping like a stone to the ground. The beast moans lowly, leaving its head where it lies. The next part is trickier. The wire must be cut in many places to free the bound legs. Geralt sets to work, carefully avoiding pressing iron to flesh. Soon the stag lies, shuddering on its side, with the last part of the snare embedded above its hoof. The wire is not designed to loosen on its own. He will have to cut it from the wound. 

Geralt puts the fingers of his glove in between his teeth and pulls, bare fingers more skilled for the task ahead. He sheds the other glove as well, tucking them into his belt for later. Then, he sets his bare hand against the stag's leg to steady it. The reaction is immediate. Like the turbulent thrumming of a hive of bees, he can feel the creature's magic against his skin and they both violently flinch back in startlement. The stag bleats, the sudden movement aggravating the pain in it's leg. Geralt blinks for a moment, reminded of the gentle magic that hums within his own brother Eskel's palms. Only this is that magnified by a hundredfold - a chaotic, trapped buzzing that ignited Geralt's palm with a lingering tingling. 

Geralt examines his hand, rough calluses unharmed from the contact. The magic is not inherently dangerous, simply a lot to take in. Geralt eyes the stag again, and already its eyes seem to be glowing more brightly from within, weak as it is. It is watching him quietly, searchingly, its pale fur marred with dirt and leaf litter. Slowly, it lowers its head back to the ground the few inches it had lifted it, the stag now curled more like a dog in front of a hearth with its haunches tucked beneath it.

Geralt reaches for the leg again, this time mostly prepared for the mad buzzing. He can feel the stag's gusted breath on the back of his hand from where its head rests near its knee. The sensation is not lesser than the first time around, but manageable. Geralt ignores it, soothing with his fingers as he would with Roach, and deciding to prrr at it as he would with her, as well. It watches him, unblinking as his fingers trace the wound. He can feel the tremor of exhaustion in its muscles and sympathizes with it. The red of it's blood is thick like sap where it oozes, covering the wire, blackening upon contact. He swipes through it until he can see the wire, tests the yield of it with the pad of his thumb, and grips tightly. Then, he presses the corner of the pincers into the wound, quickly gets a bite on the wire and cuts. The wire snaps and blackened blood bubbles as it falls away. There are new marks where the pincers dug into swollen meat, but now the metal is gone, it no longer worsens.

The stag is breathing hard, having held remarkably still, but relief limns every line of its tired body. Its eyes close, and it rolls its antlered head so that the soft, wet flat of it's delicately pink nose rests against Geralt's wrist. The canines truly are as long as his hand, Geralt marvels, just before it licks him. It only does it once, but leaves its muzzle against Geralt's skin. Its soft breath carries the balmy warmth and scent of a summer's day, and the magic buzzing against his skin quiets to a honeyed torpor as it gives in to sleep. 

Roach's indignant snort from just behind nearly startles Geralt. He casts an amused smirk at her jealous nose as she peers over his shoulder.

"Hmmm," Geralt pats her, releasing the stag's leg and rising to his feet. It does not stir, even as he cleans it wounds and dresses them with herbed poultices. He tends to Roach, brushing her down to ease her jealousy, and sets up camp early. The firelight that night dances like the Northern skylights over the stag's fur as Geralt settles in to meditate.

\------------

When Geralt opens his eyes to golden sunlight falling in patterns through the forest canopy, he can feel his guest still there. The faerie stag lies in a patch of sun not far away, legs curled more comfortably than before, watching him. In the morning light, its pearled honey coat glimmers and its antlers shine like molten metal. Its eyes are the evening sun glistening over calm ocean water. It favors its most injured leg, but has not touched the bandages. The sound it makes in greeting brings to mind silvered bells and golden horns. A patch of yellow flowers blooms by its hock. 

The next few days are a trial in patience. The stag's leg heals quickly compared to a normal animal, but the steel has left its mark. There will always be a dark, burnt looking scar in each place where the wire touched it. The lines crisscross all over it's slender legs, especially the one that it still refuses to rest weight on. The stag spends most of its time following Geralt and Roach. Roach weathers the attention mulishly, a long-suffering look on her equine face as the stag limps about. She's only threatened to kick it, but has managed a few irritated nips. Whether or not the face of an animal could show offense, the stag's dramatic overeaction is comical enough to make Geralt huff out a laugh. 

That only seems to redouble its efforts. It plies Geralt for attention, a bit like a dog or small child. Geralt rarely humors it. Once, he threw it a stick. The withering glare and resulting cold shoulder reminded Geralt of his other, more petulant brother. As did the rake of tines when the stag butted him in the arse an hour later. 

And then, the next morning, Geralt wakes and the stag is gone. 

Geralt breaks camp again, but this time no fae creature seems to follow. Even Roach seems to be looking for it as they continue on their path. 

\---------

The summer sun is a pleasant weight on Geralt's back as he pushes through a field of flowers. The drone of bumble bees and twittered birdsong, the gentle stirring of a million leafy stems upon the breeze, a thousand floral notes waft on the air - it fills Geralt with a contentment he rarely feels. Roach trails behind him at a sedate pace, longer in the tooth than she once was, but hale and sturdy all the same. Geralt closes his eyes as he walks, the sun warming red on the backs of his eyelids. Behind him, Roach nickers.

Geralt opens his eyes and the stag, if it ever were a stag, is there. Now, it truly does glow as it prances towards them. It's antlers shrink, as does it's form, until it takes the shape of a man. Delicate tines dressed in flowers fork from the top of his honeyed head, playful curls bouncing around his pointed ears as he capers through the field. The light shimmers over the fabric of his doublet, and Geralt knows its something finer than silk. It changes from cobalt to silver to teal as he moves, the sunflowers embroidered all over in gold brocade standing out in meticulous detail, accented by pleats that reveal lace of yellow like freshly churned butter. 

The man - the _**Fae**_ \- comes to a halt several paces away. His grin is blinding, bracketed by teeth far sharper than a man's should be. His eyes are still waters on a summers day, the edges crinkled in pleasure.

They regard each other for a few moments, Geralt warily and the Fae fairly bursting with contained excitement. Roach steps forward to rub against Geralt's shoulder with a pleased nicker, the same pleasant greeting she would give the familiar company of his brother's mounts. The Fae's face brightens further.

"My dear, lovely, beautiful friend Roach!" The Fae croons. "You are as lovely as ever and your coat fairly glistens! And your companion," he turns to Geralt now, a playful cant to his hips as he gestures with a hand upon which the nails glimmer like a scarab's wings, "Is just as lovely." Geralt tries not to frown. He mostly succeeds.

"None of that!" The Fae admonishes, waving one finger warningly in Geralt's direction. "I've wanted to tell you since the moment I saw you. Your eyes gleam like burnished brass gilded with flecks of gold. I've seen no others that compare. It's an honest complement, and you wouldn't want to offend me by thinking any less of them." He has both brows raised entreatingly, as if daring Geralt to speak against him. Geralt holds his tongue, remembering Vesemir's warning about offending the Fae.

"You are ever the most bubbling fount of coversation, my friend," the Fae chides, almost fondly. "Speak freely!"

"Hmm," Geralt intones, much to the Fae's delight. "You've healed well, then." The Fae spins in a jaunty little circle, arms spread as if to showcase his soundness. He stops with his arm held forward for Geralt's inspection. Hidden mostly by frills of buttery lace at his wrist, are the scars left by the steel. The skin is no longer blackened, but thick and raised and the russet color of a bad burn. He even flexes his wrist to show how well the joint has fared. 

"A nasty business, that. Iron and steel," the Fae muses, flexing his hand before baring sharp teeth in something less than a grin. For a moment, unease settles in Geralt's gut, and he fears the Fae may turn on him. But the Fae's face pops back into a friendly, if wry, grin nearly as fast as it had dropped it. 

"I'll bear the marks of my youthful folly for the rest of my immortal life. A reminder," his face became serious, his words no longer playful, nor bright. "And a warning."

He stared at Geralt, face austere, perhaps parsing if Geralt had captured all the possible angles of his message. Or, perhaps, looking at the way the light illuminated feline eyes as Geralt nodded.

"You asked that I deliver you no harm as repayment." Blue like the summer sky contemplated Geralt. "Any other of my kind would have found a way to twist your words, you understand." The Fae added, not unkindly.

"I could think of a hundred ways to interpret them, and there would still be room for more." It had the ring of a threat, and Geralt tensed, fists clenching in his gloves as the Fae stepped into Geralt's space. 

"That I not harm you, I think, was all that you might have been asking in repayment." The Fae raised a hand slowly, every motion telescoped so that Geralt could interpret his motions, and pull away if he so wished. The points of his long nails are sharp as they touch Geralt's skin, capable of flensing flesh and bleeding Geralt where he stood. They settle delicately, ever so gently, along the curve of Geralt's stubbled jaw. A warm palm cups Geralt's chin, the honeyed hum of magic languid under his touch. His ocean eyes are endless. Geralt blinks. This is a promise more than it is a threat.

"I will deliver you no harm in repayment for your kindness." The Fae murmurs against Geralt's jaw. "I will deliver you a kindness, in it's stead." Plush lips tingle against the curve of his cheek.

"You may call me Jaskier. And you will be my White Wolf." The Names burn against Geralt's lips. It is not the Fae's true Name, not entirely, but it is his Name, nonetheless. 

But being Named the White Wolf? It is a gift, and a kindness, and a threat. It rings more truely than Geralt of Rivia ever has. Most Witchers lost their true names, one way or another. 

Jaskier's kindness is a tidal wave, the hum of a thousand whispered voices, rising as they kiss.

  
  
  



End file.
